The Stripteaser

Sitting at the starting line, heart pounding, gut twisted tight like the strap of my helmet, I could feel every nerve humming. There’s a hush right before launch, a silent dare between fear and adrenaline.

And I always saw the green before the men.
A millisecond faster — yes, science backs us there — but back then, I didn’t need data.
I knew.
My body reacted before thought ever arrived.

My car, The Stripteaser.
Porsche red.
Gorgeous.
Racing slicks like sin and silk.
One seat, roll bar, no fluff, no nonsense.
She was more than metal, she was appetite and speed and wild possibility, and I was the only one trusted to hold her reins.

She was built to run
And I was built to launch.

I remember the split second before I hit the gas ,
fear whispering, You might not live through this,
and then the thrill roaring back:
But oh, what a way to risk it.

I wasn’t Shirley Muldowney.
I was me.
The Stripteaser.
I claimed the lane, the noise, the danger, the power.
I earned every sideways glance, every doubt, every assumption that a woman couldn’t possibly handle this.

I didn’t just handle it.
I flew.

It came back to me today, out of nowhere, the smell of fuel, the vibration in my chest, the pulse in my fingertips.
I hadn’t thought about it in years.
But suddenly I was right back at that speedway, helmet on, heart hungry.

And God
I loved it.

I loved the risk.
I loved the flame of fear right next to the fire of possibility.
I loved knowing I wasn’t supposed to be there, and being there anyway.

Once you’ve known that kind of power, once you’ve stared down fear and hit the gas anyway, life feels different.

You don’t shrink.
You don’t whisper.
You don’t ask permission.

You remember exactly who the hell you are.

🔥🦋
With fire and grace,
Carole Sanek
#fiercefragilebrave
linktr.ee.com/carole869

Funny how memory sneaks up and reminds you —
you weren’t always surviving.
Sometimes, you were flying.